Chicken Soup for the Cold
by Asagi Tsuki
Summary: Draco refuses to drink potions whenever he is sick.  Luckily for him, Harry makes great chicken soup


**Chicken Soup for the Cold**

By: Asagi Tsuki

Beta: seizethestreets

Pairing: implied Harry/Draco (at least, I think it's pretty much leads up to that)

Summary: Draco refuses to drink potions whenever he is sick. Luckily for him, Harry makes great chicken soup.

Warning: OOCness, non-canon compliant

Disclaimer: obviously, Harry Potter is not written by me. If it were, it would be so lame, that this fandom would be non-existent. And I would be off writing another book instead of fanfics.

A/N: pointless fluffy ficlet :P it feels good to write a pointless fluff once in a while.

**Chicken Soup for the Cold**

Harry noticed that Draco Malfoy landed in the hospital wing as often, or even more, as him when he ended up in it for the third time in a month since he got back to Hogwarts for the new school year due to Quidditch-related injuries.

He only noticed because every time he woke up in the hospital bed, Malfoy would always be there too, on one of the other beds, sleeping the day away with a bright flush on his cheeks and sweat trailing down his forehead.

The sixth time he ended up in the hospital wing, he overheard Madame Pomfrey nearly having a snit because Malfoy had refused to drink the potions. Even threats didn't work, as well as force-feeding. She had tried pouring the potion down his throat when he was asleep, but he had gagged and threw it up again.

Harry was there too when Professor Snape told her that Malfoy had had a potion mishap when he was still little, and because of it, had refused to drink any potion, even one that was prescribed by a Healer.

"But he can't go on like this," Madame Pomfrey protested. "That boy falls sick almost twice a month, and he takes at least three days to recover. How is he going to catch up with his schoolwork? He would have recovered in less than a day if he would just take the potion!"

Harry had had every intention to ignore them and go on with his life. After all, he wasn't Malfoy's caretaker. Sure, Malfoy wasn't a git towards Harry, but that was simply because Malfoy didn't even acknowledge his existence.

Hermione said it might be a genetic thing—to have low immunity against the common cold virus. She rarely saw wizards or witches suffer a cold, and she reasoned Malfoy must be a special case.

"Why don't you make him chicken soup, Harry?" Hermione suggested. "You're good at cooking, aren't you? I tried to ask the house-elves if they could help, but they're not so sure what the soup is like."

Harry eyed her strangely. "And why should I be the one who make it?" he asked. "Why are you trying to help him in the first place?"

"Oh come on, we're Gryffindors and are supposed to be noble, aren't we?" Hermione asked with a huff. "Do you really feel nothing, watching a fellow student suffer at least twice a month, and for days on end, because of something he has no power on?"

"She's only looking for more competition," Ron cut in. "She reasoned that if Malfoy had posed a threat by coming close second in the student ranks while he is constantly sick, he would provide much more competition if he isn't sick as often."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Only you, Hermione. Only you."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him as well. "So are you going to do it or not?"

The next morning, Malfoy wasn't in the Great Hall for breakfast. Hermione kept staring at Harry, and he gave up with a sigh. During his free period, he went to the kitchen and made a bowl of chicken soup for Malfoy, all the while cursing Hermione in his head.

"Malfoy," Harry called as he stood beside Malfoy's bed, carrying the tray with the bowl of chicken soup on it. "Wake up."

Malfoy opened one bleary eye and shot Harry a dirty glare. "Potter," he grunted, his voice hoarse and raw.

"I see you know who I am," Harry said, the corner of his lip twitching up to form a grin.

Draco scoffed. "What do you want?"

"Eat this."

"What's this?"

"Chicken soup."

Malfoy sniffed and sat up on his bed, peering curiously at the bowl of steaming soup. "Chicken soup?" he asked. "Why?"

"It helps with colds," Harry answered easily.

"I mean, why are you doing this?" Malfoy asked again. "And how should I know you're not trying to poison me? Or if Madame Pomfrey hasn't tried to put the potion in the soup?"

At that time, he truly wished Malfoy was Gryffindor instead of Slytherin, and would just take the soup with gratitude instead of so many questions.

"If you must know, Hermione wants you to be at your best all the time, competition and all that. I'm the one unfortunate enough to be able to cook and she asked me to," Harry explained.

"Oh," Malfoy said, seemingly disappointed. Harry raised an eyebrow in question but didn't say anything as Malfoy accepted the tray and placed it on his lap. "You can leave now, Potter," he said, voice still hoarse. "And give my thanks to Granger."

When Harry told her what had happened in the infirmary, Hermione had scolded him instead.

"Really, Harry, how would you feel if one day you're in the hospital wing, then I come visit you with a gift only to say that Malfoy wants you to recover soon to provide competition during the Quidditch match, and I'm the one unfortunate enough to have a free time so I had to come see you?"

"Give the guy a break, Herm. Not all males are born to speak wise words all the time," Ron said with a shrug. "It's not like they're friends, either, so you can't compare yourself to him."

Even after the little speech Ron gave, Harry still felt terrible, and so he found himself in the hospital wing again the next day, carrying a bowl of chicken soup with him.

"How are you feeling, Malfoy?" he asked, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

"Surprisingly better," Malfoy admitted. "What are you doing?"

"Bringing you your soup," Harry answered with a shrug.

"Why?"

"I'm making this my day job."

Malfoy snorted. "Of course. How could I expect less from Saint Potter, ever the hero?"

"Shut up and eat your soup," Harry said, but he was grinning.

"What if I grow bored of chicken soup?" Malfoy asked, placing the tray on his lap.

Harry's grin widened. "You can never grow bored of chicken soup."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

True to what he said, Harry had religiously brought chicken soup for Draco every time he was sick. With plenty of water and rest on the side, Malfoy recovered much quicker than he used to, and it pleased Madame Pomfrey. Hermione was pleased too, because her suspicion was correct and he gave her a run for her money.

After the first three months, where Harry only sat quietly on the bed next to Malfoy's while watching him eat, they began making small talk. They talked about everything that came to mind, from schoolwork to Quidditch to holiday plans and favourite pets. Their conversation could start with a discussion of their last class together, and morph into a gossip of who was seeing whom.

When Hermione knew, she had commented on how they were being such _girls_.

After the first year of their new routine, they became Harry and Draco to each other, not Potter and Malfoy. The tradition continued onto their last year at Hogwarts, and by that time, almost everyone at school knew about it and thought they were dating.

After all, why else would a Gryffindor visit a Slytherin every time he ended in the hospital wing for a cold and bring him chicken soup?

When they graduated, the two went on their separate ways. Both got their own flats, but while Draco stayed in the Wizarding World, Harry chose a flat in Muggle London.

One night, Draco was lounging on his couch, being thoroughly miserable. He had a congested nose, a headache, and a sore throat. Every time he tried to get up, he would just fall back down. And he would never admit it out loud, but he missed Harry's chicken soup.

And maybe, just maybe, he missed the man too.

None of his pureblooded friends knew how to make chicken soup. Even if they did, he doubted they would stoop so low as to go to the kitchen and cook something for him.

He felt someone walking past his wards and wondered who it was. He only allowed some people entry to his flat, namely his parents, some of his Slytherin friends, and—

"Oi, Draco."

Harry.

"I brought you your soup," Harry said with a grin, lifting the thermos he held in his hand.

Draco grinned back at him, happy that Harry hadn't quit his 'day job.'

**End Story**

I know, I know. I should be shot for the lack of proper H/D loving. I hadn't intended to stop there, but am not sure how to continue it, so this will have to do :3 it's pretty much inevitable at this point, anyway. Their going out, I mean :D

Hope you enjoyed that :D if you do, do leave a comment coz I'm a comment whore :P


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